


Opposites

by mechanicalUniverses



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon language, Confessions, Fluff, Like mega fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentioned Characters, Notes, Pining, Red vs. Blue - Freeform, Swearing, This is like on Chorus, let them be happy i say, look theyve had enough shit, rvb, thats what I had in mind while i was writing this at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-07 19:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11630436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalUniverses/pseuds/mechanicalUniverses
Summary: Opposites attract. That's what Simmons says.Grif doesn't feel that's true.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> howdy everyone! this is my first rvb fic, so i know it's ooc and all, but im learning. i got this idea at twelve am a few nights ago, and then i got sick, and then this came out of all of that.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!!

Something's changed.

It was little things at first. Simmons nudging him a little more than necessary, letting him steal a bite of his portions without as much of a fight. A soft, "Good night, Grif," almost every evening before they went into their separate rooms. Even the insults seemed a little more tender than derogative. Maybe that last bit was Grif being desperate.

He didn't want to get his hopes up. Not again. So he tried avoiding Simmons for a couple days, but it was suddenly like Simmons had developed a sixth sense that told him where Grif was at all times. No matter what, Simmons would find him, drag him out of his new hiding spot, and scold him. That part wasn't new. The new part was the sad expression passing over him he got before he left.

"Okay, _why_ are you pissed at me?" Simmons asked him after finding him yet again. "You've been avoiding things more than usual."

"How can you avoid something _more?_ Do you avoid it and then magically predict the next thing and avoid that too?"

"That's not the point," Simmons said through grit teeth. Grif rolls his eyes. "I'm not pissed. I just, uh, needed a thinking time." Simmons clearly didn't believe him, but Grif stopped running from him after that. He couldn't stand that hurt look.

"Look, I'm not pissed. I just, uh, needed a thinking time." Simmons clearly didn't believe him, but Grif stopped running from him after that. He couldn't stand that hurt look.

After that, it became a little more like before. But there were still extra smiles, and those seemed more genuine. There were a couple times where the mood was charged with an unnameable tension that they both quickly walked away from. Neither one of them were any good at the emotional stuff. But he knew what he _wants_ to say. He's rewritten the script too many times to keep track of.

Years. It's been literally years, and he still can't his foot out of his mouth to tell Simmons he's been— he _is_ still so in lo—

"Good morning, Grif!" Grif chokes on his food. A slender hand pats him on the back as he hacks out his lungs.

"Uh. Hey, Donut," he rasps when he recovers.

"How're you this morning?" Donut asks cheerfully. Grif squints at him suspiciously.

"What do you want?" he asks bluntly. No point in dancing around when it came to Donut.

"Oh, nothing! I just wanted to know how you're doing! I'm doing fantastic myself! I gave myself a good rubbing the other night, it gets the skin nice and moist, you know?" Donut chuckles heartily. "I am so glad you found that moisturizer on that last supply run! Thank you for that, by the way." Grif studies him warily. Donut wanted something. He could see it in the way he practically vibrates with excitement. "So. How _are_ you?"

"As good as I can ever be, which is fucking terrible."

"Buck up mister, that attitude can't be doing much good!" Donut chides. He lays a hand on Grif's for a moment, then takes it off to fiddle with some non-existent smudge on his armor. Grif watched with one eyebrow raised. "How's Simmons?" he blurts after a minute.

Grif cocks a brow and turns back to his tray. Suddenly, the oatmeal mush looks even less appetizing now. "Fine," he says flatly.

Donuts smile drops a bit. "Did you have a fight?" he asks sympathetically. "A quarrel? Ooh, was it a _lovers_ quarrel? Those are just the worst!"

"No? Why the emphasis? We're just—" he hesitates faintly, "same as always."

"Is he mad at you?" Donut leans forwards in interest. Grif shifts away.

"Probably."

"What happened?"

"I dunno."

"What did you do?"

"Who said I did anything?" Grif snaps. Donut is visibly taken aback as Grif grunts and stands up. "Nothing happened! Simmons and I didn't fuck, we didn't get drunk and make out somewhere, we haven't clutched each other desperately while we bleed out, literally everything is the exact same shit _as always!_ "

"Did you—"

" _No._ "

"I just want to help!" cries Donut. Grif doesn't deem him an answer as he picks up his tray and moves to the other side of the cafeteria.

"Bad sex?" Tucker asks through a mouthful of rice the minute his ass touches the bench. Grif makes a noise of frustration, picks up his helmet, tucks it under his arm, and walks away.

A nameless buzz fills his head as he meanders the halls. It turns his mind blank, so he just lets his feet guide him. Wherever he ends up, he'll probably just take a nap and be annoyed some other time. But while he's very much awake? Well. He could figure out what's got his thoughts all tangled up.

The others had noticed. He had noticed. And Simmons was promoting it. Something was definitely up. The Something wasn't bad, he just... He doesn't want to get his hopes up. He could dream about the moment for as long as he wanted, but God forbid he do anything that even has the slightest chance of screwing it up. That included any sort of social contact about the matter.

Grif stops in a doorway. Just in front of him is the motor pool, the number one place to go if he wanted to get yelled at by Simmons and Sarge for stepping over some line only they know about.

He could go in. Simmons was always in here after lunch. He could pull him aside, get it over with in a few minutes, and walk out. Whatever happens, happens. He could deal with it. How well he dealt with it was a different matter.

He could also just walk away, and not deal with any of it right now. There would be later he could rely on. Yeah. He likes that option better.

Grif wheels around, and smacks his head right into a hard, unforgiving chest plate. He stumbles, reaching out his arm to catch himself. To his surprise, a hand clasps his elbow, steadying him.

"Careful, fatass," comes a voice. Grif makes out a maroon smudge through watering eyes.

"How about you watch where _you're_ going!" he automatically retorts, tugging at his arm. Simmons lets go of his elbow lightning quick.

"Technically I was. I go this way every day, and no one ever stops in the middle of the hallway to— Hey, wait, what are you even doing here? Shouldn't you be like, sleeping in a closet somewhere? Or pigging out in your room?"

"Man, sleeping and eating. I must have a really in-depth and insightful character," Grif says sarcastically.

"Well, no one really ever sees you doing anything else since you actively avoid doing anything else."

"Damn right." Grif touches the knot on his head gingerly— that'll definitely bruise, 'cause holy _shit_ that stings, is it bleeding?—

"Are you okay?" Simmons asks. Grif blinks for a moment. His hand falls limply to his side.

"Huh?" Grif says intelligently.

"You didn't hit your head _that_ hard," Simmons reproaches. "I _said_ , are you okay?"

"Yeah? Why wouldn't I be fine?" This was weird. This was _really_ fucking weird.

"Really? You don't sound like it. Let me check." Before Grif can get another a word in, Simmons steps in close and brushes the strands of hair that escape his bun out of his face, leaning in close enough that Grif can make out even the faintest of the freckles that cover half of his face.

"What..." The words die in his mouth. Simmons ignores him and cups his hands lightly around his face. Grif can feel the contrast of the cool armor against his hot face just a bit too sharply. Too close, he's too close—

Simmons thumbs at something above his eyebrow, but there's nothing there, or on the back of his head, what the fuck is going on with him? Are his eyes lingering just a bit too long, a little bit too low to be looking at his forehead, or was Grif imagining things?

"Looks fine." And the moments over just like that, with Simmons stepping around him and Grif just standing there in shock.

"Cool. C'ya." Simmons disappears into the armory. A minute later, Grif can hear him already admonishing someone for screwing up despite his very clearly labeled system. Grif watches him for a moment, expecting some sort of clumsiness or to hear his voice get all squeaky when he's embarrassed. But no, Simmons just goes about as if nothing had happened.

Maybe he did have a concussion. He should go lie down then. That's what you're supposed to do when you have a concussion, right? Do they normally make you feel like you could run around the whole world, or make you feel as light as a feather, or make you think, 'I should marry him'?

He finally tears his gaze away and starts making the trek back to his room. When he does, he doesn't see Simmons watching him. He doesn't see the hopeful way his eyes linger around the corner Grif turns around, and he doesn't catch him puffing his flushed cheeks out and letting out a sigh of relief.

He definitely misses Simmons murmuring, " _I'm so fucked._ "

When Grif gets back to his room, he finds that his nightstand has been entirely cleared off. The clothes he had thrown over it were folded and placed off to the side. The wrappers were thrown away, the only thing left a single piece of paper that was centered too well to be an accident. The floor and bed weren't touched.

Grif shuffles over to it. He sets his helmet down and picks up the paper to read two words on it.

**You were**

It's not printed. It's not a voice or text message left in his inbox. It's pen, written in real ink, and even if the ink is patchy and fading in some spots, he can tell it's Simmons' handwriting.

His brows furrow when he flips it over. It's blank. What was this, some sort of fill in the blank? You were... Lazy? Dumb? Grif snorts derisively. That was old news. He crumples it up and tosses it somewhere. Whatever happened in the doorway was probably a part of this too.

 _Why?_  He stops. The chances of it just being Simmons screwing with him was almost at 100%. Why shouldn't he just throw it away if it's just another dumb prank? What could he possibly gain from indulging in this?

_Think about it, dumbass._

He can't recall recently doing anything out of the ordinary to fall victim to a joke. But this wasn't about him; this was about Simmons, and why  _he_  would do this. So, what did Grif know about him?

Papers, pencils, pens. He knew that Simmons loved to doodle and scribble, but only with a pencil or pen. Nothing specific, just impossibly neat patterns and mesmerizing swirls and swoops. But pens weren't really futuristic technology at this point in time, and everything that needed to be written down could be done so on datapads. Last time Grif had bothered to check in on their supplies, Simmons only had one left, a nice red calligraphy pen.

Simmons is bothered by it. Grif knows because he's seen all of the irritated taps and huffs he makes during meetings. He's noticed the way Simmons drags his finger in spirals and geometric shapes on the table, on his armor, on whatever surface was available. He stills when he is speaking, or being spoken to. And then he starts again a minute later when he thinks no one is paying attention to him.

He wouldn't waste his last bit precious red ink for a  _joke_.

Grif has to walk around hunched over for at least five minutes before he finds it again. He glances around, looking for somewhere to put it and not get buried. He ends up smoothing it out, because the crinkles he gave it annoy him, glancing over it one last time. Then he opens up his desk drawer to put it inside.

He goes to peel off his armor, casting it off into the corner of the room with a methodical  _thunk, thunk, thunk._  Unorganized, inefficient, sloppy. Completely opposite of Simmons. Just like everything else he did.

Grif sighs.

If there was one thing he hated, it was opposites.

There were plenty of other things he hated, but they mostly revolved around opposites. What was the point in having two things clash, and then spending time and effort making those things work together? It was like trying to put two north ends on a magnet together. It just flung itself away or skated around each other.

Now Simmons, of course, was a fan of opposites. He liked things having one answer, never a free hanging one. True or false. Yes or no. Never just a simple 'maybe' or a nonchalant shrug. He always had some bizarre system to give him a straight answer with no chance of it being anything else.

He smiles bitterly about the irony of it all. The man he had to have fallen in love with was his polar opposite.

Grif was better at improvisation than he was at sitting for hours agonizing over every detail of a plan. Simmons was not. Grif preferred the salty ocean breeze on his lips to fresh air on the mountains. Simmons did not.

Simmons was a control freak and couldn't put together a chair without every square inch of the instructions read fifty times over. Grif was not. Simmons liked a cup of coffee without even a grain of sugar in it. Grif did not.

Grid liked brighter colors, Simmons preferred cooler ones. He liked the feel of rain, and Simmons says he's tired of it. He loved spicy foods, Simmons always turned his nose up. Hell, even their bodies were hilariously contrasted when they stood next to each other.

He wonders if he and Simmons were meant to be North and North. Always fighting against each other, but unwilling to change so they could work together. Pride kept them from doing that. So they collided. They bounced away, came right back at each other, never connected, again, and again, and again.

He thought about what it would be like for them if he could ever suck it up and talk to him. If they ever got away from this damned war and maybe ask if they could live in a quiet apartment together, or a small house on the edge of the city, away from people, or a cabin hidden in the palm groves on a beach full of shells. Whatever Simmons wanted honestly, as long as there was a 24-hour convenience store in walking distance.

"Opposites attract," says Simmons.

 _Not us,_  Grif thinks.

 

* * *

 

Over the course of a couple weeks, Grif finds more pieces of paper left on his desk. The second one is "hopeful", the third is "out", and the fourth one is "hate".

"You were hopefully out hate? Were you hopefully out hate? What the fuck, Simmons?" he mutters as he shuffles through them again while he's sitting in his room. He tries putting them in a different order, but it just makes less sense than before. "Hopefully you were out hate. Hate you were out hopefully. _What?_ "

He hasn't talked to Simmons about it. But notices Simmons looking at him expectantly throughout the day, which means he's very much aware of what he's doing. Their conversations are exactly the same, but both of them carefully avoid the topic. Grif is more and more tempted to ask with each new paper, but he resists as much as he can.

His resolve breaks on the fifth one.

"'Without'?" he blurts to Simmons that day. His head jolts up, smacking the top of it into the underside of one of the cars. He curses loudly as he slides himself out, his face contorting into a heavy scowl.

"How many times do I have to say to not talk to me when I'm underneath a six thousand pound mini-tank!" Simmons snaps. He puts the wrench down on the worktable forcefully.

"Shh, it's okay, Simmons. You can just say armored car."

"Shut the fuck up Grif, you still call the Warthogs 'Pumas', don't think I haven't noticed. You can't say anything."

"But they totally look like Pumas! I don't get why you can't see it!"

The question is forgotten until dinner.

"Seriously, dude, what do you even mean?" Grif points his fork accusingly at Simmons. It flings a piece of steamed carrot over his shoulder and hits Sarge on his shoulder. Thankfully, he can't feel it through his armor. Caboose is the only one nearby, and he's focused on making a face out of his mashed potatoes, so he feels like he's safe talking about this. "All I'm getting out of it is crap!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Simmons says airily, carefully avoiding eye contact.

"Bullshit, Simmons. None of _this_ —" He goes to pull out the notes from his armors pocket, but Simmons closes his long fingers over his wrist before he can.

"Don't pull those out here!" he hisses. His ears are as red as the flaming roots of his hair, and his eyes dart around in worry. "Just— You'll get it. Even someone as dumb as you would."

"Or you could just tell me, and spare me the pain?" Grif says hopefully.

For some reason, this makes Simmons smile crookedly. He turns away, hand on the back of his neck. "You'll get it eventually," he repeats.

"Ah!" Grif and Simmons stiffen and look at Caboose. He's still poking at his potatoes, which are now a mess. "Gruf, Gruf, Gruf, Grif-with-two-f's, maybe Simon is a spy! And he is making you do super secret spy stuff! Like codes! And you get to wear nice clothes, and then you get to ruin them!"

"Thanks, Caboose, but I don't think this asshole would make a good spy. He'd bitch about the tie not being right or something, and then get caught." He leaves a space Simmons to make a witty retort. Instead, all he gets is Simmons seething at Caboose. Something like realization dawns on his face a second later.

"Codes... Okay. Hey, Grif," he says, "if you're really having trouble, listen to Caboose. That's my hint."

"What?" says Grif incredulously. "Isn't that like, breaking the number one rule? Never listen to anything Caboose says unless you want to die?"

"Yeah, but this won't get you killed."

"Wouldn't kill you to just tell me what the fuck's going on, either!"

Simmons does not tell him what the fuck is going on. Instead, his smile just gets a little wider and his eyes a little softer. "I will."

Grif stares at him.

"Just not now."

"God dammit!" Grif throws his hands up with a groan and stomps out of the room. He passes Sarge on the way, who glares at him. Well, he's wearing his helmet, but Grif can tell when Sarge is glaring at him because that's all he ever does.

"What's got yer panties in a twist?" he asks.

"Simmons is being a cryptic asshole, and apparently everyone is in on something that I'm not!"

Sarge is silent.

" _Sir_."

"Well, a mans got his business! And y'ain't got no right to know if he ain't tellin' ya!"

"I know that, sir. And you all could take a leaf out of that book." Grif leaves him there because he really doesn't want to get caught in an emotional conversation with _Sarge_.

When he gets back to his room, he finds another goddamn note on his desk. This time, it just says, 'i'.

As usual, Grif flips it over to check the back side. He's surprised to see there's actually writing there.

**Last one.**

Perplexed, Grif takes out the rest of the notes. They're a little worse for wear, but they aren't torn or ruined enough to where he can't read them. Not that that would matter. He's memorized each one after reading them so often. But he was careful because this ink meant a lot to Simmons, and if he was using it on him, well. It must be something special.

He puts them down in order to read them together.

**You were hopefully out hate without me.**

Again, he tries to restring them, but to no avail. The closest he can get is a weirdly self-deprecating vibe. He's fairly certain Simmons wouldn't spend a couple weeks telling him to hopefully hate him.

He ends up going to his bed to think. Staring blankly up at the ceiling was always the best way to clear his mind. He ends up sitting there for three hours, and he still can't figure it out.

Eventually, he gets a message from Tucker his communicator telling him he needs to _get the fuck down here or I will go to your room and get Caboose to actually steal your mattress._ Oops.

Well, he can't have his most treasured item taken from him. So he goes and actually does the training. It's as awful as he expects and by the end, Caboose, Carolina, and Sarge are the only ones left standing. Donut is whining about sore glutes, Tucker is critiquing Wash again about leg day, Simmons is sat up against a wall, looking like he would rather be dead, and Grif himself gave up halfway through and flopped down in the middle of the floor.

At least he has a good reason to convince the kitchen crew into giving him extra portions at dinner.

He's distracted from the notes for a few hours more hours when the Tucker decides that they haven't had enough all around team heckling. He sends out a mass message, but Donut is the one who physically drags down a few people from their rooms. Wash mysteriously escapes him. But he shows up later after a tearful message from Caboose.

Someone, definitely not Grif, breaks into the kitchen to find the alcohol after about an hour of just chattering about their recruits and a few stories being passed around. Over the course of a couple hours, they're all practically shouting over each other to get their words in.

It's a good night overall. Grif's cheeks hurt from smiling, and the high hasn't faded by the time he and Simmons stumble up to their rooms. They sound like a pair of elephants from the way they run into walls and trip and giggle, but he doesn't care.

They reach the hallway, and they just stand there clutching each other and laugh and laugh. They're surely waking up the whole base. Oh well. They deserved to something like this every once in a while. They worked hard, dammit!

"Goodnigh', Gri'," slurs Simmons. Grif turns to him to say the same because it's so rude not to, but Simmons is right in his face. Huh.

"Hey," he says. Simmons smiles at him, which makes his stomach do something weird. Oh, right. He was in love with this man. That's why his— technically Simmons— insides do weird flips when he smiles.

"Hi," Simmons whispers, and did he move closer? Grif should do something. Maybe kiss him goodnight? That's what you're supposed to do, right?

Simmons backs away like he's been electrocuted. Grif tilts his head in confusion. "I should, uh," he pauses to clear his throat. "Go. Yeah. G'night." He brushes past Grif, his scent staying for a few precious seconds before fading into the damp smell of the hallway.

"G'night," Grif calls to him after the door clicks shut.

He manages to get to his bed without falling flat on his face, flings himself into the covers, and sleeps without a single dream pushing past the cloudy haze.

The next morning, he can only recall laughter and the smell of vanilla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed!! once again, i apologize for any severe ooc'ness. i just want them to talk to each other, and if they're a little excited or whatever, well. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> this is unbetaed and i'm only using the grammar.ly extension to help me find stuff. if there's any mistakes, please feel free to point them out!! thank you and have a wonderful day!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Simmons is right after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone!! thanks for being so patient. i technically had this chapter ready, but i ended up going back and rewriting and editing a bunch. anyways, i hope you enjoyed the first chapter, and i hope you'll like this one too!

A few days pass. Simmons is being weird again. He glances to Grif more often than not when he's talking, he keeps saying certain words with more emphasis, and _again_ with the physical contact! He swears he's been touched on the shoulder, or his back, or his arm more this past week than his entire lifetime. He thought Simmons wasn't a huge fan of the whole touching thing!

He glances slyly at Simmons, who's reassembling a rifle. His tongue peeks out from between his lips like it always does when he's focused. When was the last time the guy has a hug? Not a 'thank God you're alive' embrace of pure fear and desperation, just a simple, _totally platonic_ , hug?

When was the last time Grif had had one?

The first one that comes to mind is Kai holding onto him as tight as her small arms could when he was leaving. But that was over a decade ago. It couldn't have been that long since then. Could it? No. Maybe? No, no, that couldn't be right, he _knows_ that's not right—

"Penny for your thoughts?" Simmons' voice breaks him out of his musings.

"Make it a dollar and you have a deal." Simmons rolls his eyes and fishes out a piece of chewing gum from somewhere in his armor.

"A piece of really old gum for your thoughts?" he rephrases in a monotone. Grif takes the gum and unwraps it thoughtfully.

"Not much. Just thinkin' about Kai." Grif pops the gum in his mouth and tilts his head a little. "We should go get her soon. No, scratch that, we _are_  gonna go get her soon. And then we're going right the fuck home. No more of this totally bullshit war, or wars, or whatever the hell is going on anymore."

Simmons is quiet for a moment. "Is that—" he coughs and clears throat. He tries again. "That's what you really want?"

"Hell yeah! Why the fuck wouldn't I want to go home? That's way better than what we've been doing, which is basically travel through a void for a bit, find some big rock with issues, move on after we fix said issue, find a cooler, bigger rock with _more_ problems. Except for this time, it has _snow!_ Wow! Oh, and we might die again. Whoop-dee-fuckin'-do."

The conversation lulls a bit. Grif carefully retightens a screw in his own gun. Not too tight, the firing mechanisms might go wrong, not too loose, the recoil might be off in the field. At least, that's what he thinks it is. He really doesn't pay attention to these things. If it works, it works, and if it blows up in his face, well, he's wearing armor that probably costs enough to bring a small country out of debt. It should work out fine.

"Just you guys?"

"What?"

"Nevermind," Simmons says quickly. He turns back to his gun. Grif looks at him for a moment longer before he shrugs and goes back to putting his own weapon together.

During lunch, Tucker approaches him. He sits down across from him and stares until Grif looks up. He has his hands laced and he leans forward on the table like some business man trying to make a deal. Grif cocks an eyebrow. Tucker clears his throat.

"You're a fucking idiot," he tells Grif.

"Hello to you too, asshole."

"Dude! Just fucking— It's _not_ hard to figure out!" Tucker throws arms up, then drags a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Christ, it's embarrassing watching you two moon over each other! Like, holy hell, you aren't high school teenagers! You could get shot tomorrow, and then we have to deal with Simmons crying over your dumb ass! Get your shit together!"

"Yeah well, _maybe_ ," Grif says irritatedly, "you wouldn't be so 'embarrassed' about us if you guys fucked off and let us deal with it ourselves." And he goes back to ignoring him. Man, these hash browns were just outstanding today. They actually had a little flavor to them.

"You aren't _going_ deal with it though! You're just gonna keep walking away like you do with everything else!"

"What do you think of the broccoli today? I personally think a little more butter could have been used. It's a little dry."

"Oh my God," Tucker groans, dragging out each word. He abruptly stands up and leaves, apparently too done with Grif to survive this conversation. Good. He needed a nap anyway.

Just as he gets up, someone grabs him by the shoulder.

"If you're seriously stuck," comes Simmons' voice in his ear, low and quiet, "which I honestly don't know how you could be, I figured it was obvious, just remember North and South." And just as quickly as he appeared, he's gone.

Grif stares at the empty spot. "What the _fuck_ Simmons?"

 

* * *

 

In the safety of his room, he thinks. He ponders and wonders and dwells on every little thing that's happened lately.

First, his own depressive thought session that was basically just him pining. Which was just pathetic. He didn't want to think about that.

Second, there was Simmons getting all touchy and smiley and making Grif feel warm all the time. Stupid Simmons being cute. Fuck that guy.

Then it was the Doorway Incident he's shoved into the dark corner of his brain. Then there were those godforsaken _notes_ that he should really take care of soon. One thing Tucker had said stuck with him; he might not have tomorrow to do this. He didn't have the luxury to have all the time in the world to wait until the perfect moment like some people did.

Grif props his head up on one hand. The other toys with the drawstring of his sweatpants. _Listen to Caboose_ and North and South were his hints.

"What the hell," Grif mutters. "Ugh. The Arctic and Antarctica? North and South America?" Is it something that's even on Earth? Okay, well he didn't exactly know the geography of every damn planet to exist, so he's just going to stick with Earth. There had to be a pattern somewhere in there.

A few more minutes of chewing on the idea and still, nothing. No sudden shout of 'eureka!', no heart stopping moment of realization. Grif murmurs some choice words and decides to come back to that. Whatever. Moving on.

Next had been what Caboose had said. What was it again? Something about Simmons being a spy? Or was it spies in general? Then something about ruining their clothes. No, there was another thing before that. Spy clothes, no, codes. _Codes._

Grif frowns. He already knew it was coded, though. How the fuck was that supposed to help? He needs the key to said code, not the key to the obvious.

North and South. Codes. Maybe North and South _were_  the codes.

"Gotta start somewhere," Grif says to the empty room. He's takes out his datapad and opens up the document with the full message spelled out. He swears that little blinky blue bar is taunting him.

Simmons was a nerd. He probably _would_ pull some sort of coding-encryption shit on him. Oh, God, Simmons better not be expecting Grif to figure out some bullshit program or something. Grif sighs, pushing that thought aside, and looks up types of encryptions. He scrolls through a billion mile long list, selecting one at random. He eyes it for a moment. It seemed simple enough.

He scans the page quickly. He apparently needs a key, which he assumes is North and South, and then he needs to put it over the encrypted message and uses some weird graph to figure it out. The letters were supposed to match up or something like that. Grif stares at it for a beat before he closes the tab. Nope. He wasn't gonna do that shit. Back to square one.

The blue typing bar continues to blink unhelpfully.

North and South. What were they? Up and down? Cold and colder? One had penguins and one had polar bears if they were talking about Earth? Maybe he needs a different name. He's already gone through the Arctic and Antarctica and up and down. What else was there? Santa's home and— No, that was too much.

North and South Dakota? Or maybe North and South Carolina? What did Carolina have to do with this? She and Simmons were practically polar opposites, just like Grif and—

Grif gasps and nearly falls out of his bed in his haste to turn the light on. He trips ungracefully over a stray gauntlet, but he still reaches the wall and slaps it until he manages to find the switch.

He pats himself down before lunging for his armor. Fuck, where did they go! What was he wearing last? His hoodie? Grif leans down and swipes it up, rips the notes out of the front pocket, and throws himself at his desk.

"No way," he mutters. "There's just— No."

 **You were.** You were and... I am? That's the first thing Grif can think of, so he reaches over to his datapad and writes it down. Were 'were' and 'am' opposites? Well, if they weren't, they were for the time being.

Grif shakes his head. He knows how he works. He just had to get it out, then he could go and fix it later. Not like Simmons, who edited as he went along. No, now wasn't the time to think about Simmons. Except, technically, he was right now just by dealing with these notes. If he was indirectly thinking about Simmons, would it count?

He furiously shakes his head again. "Focus," he mutters. He thumbs the pen imprint on the back of one of the notes.

**You were hopefully out hate without i.**

"I am... Hopelessly? Hopeless? That's dark, Simmons," Grif muses. "Okay, Grif. Start talking." He sighs. Stupid brain going off on unimportant topics. Grif clears his throat and taps the papers into a straight line.

"So," he begins. "'I am hopelessly, in... Love? Love. With. You.' Okay." He picks up his datapad and writes it down. Well. He's got the first part figured out. He could go ahead and change—

Grif's thoughts catch up with his eyes. His brain screeches to a halt. Then it trips and falls down the stairs, where it lays there staring at a cloudless sky in shock. The low roar of blood rushing to his ears fills the silence.

He reads the words again. And again. And a third time.

"No way." Grif leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. "I— I got something wrong, didn't I? It's probably— _no._ " He makes a weird noise that could count as a giggle, but it's so strained it sounds hysterical. "Haha! _Real funny,_ Simmons! Good one!" he calls out. "You— You got me, you can stop... Hiding..."

Simmons does not materialize from the walls, or burst out of his tiny closet, or appear in the doorway, roaring with laughter and clutching his stomach.

Grif reads the words again.

"What. _What?!_ " He stands up. Paces around the room. Falls back onto his bed. Gets up, reads the sentence _again_.

The universe hasn't exactly been kind to him in the past. What made it change its mind now? He has to be dreaming. He's had scary realistic dreams before. This wouldn't be anything new. Grif pinches himself on the wrist, hard. Nothing happens except now his wrist stings a bit. He tries his ribs and his cheeks too, but there is still no sudden reveal of a dark closet or the inside of his helmet.

Grif makes a very embarrassing, very high-pitched sound. His face splits into a wide smile that reduces his vision to slits.

"'I am hopelessly in love with you.' Oh, my God. Oh. My. _God!_ " The feeling in his chest is too much for him, so he stands up, walks in quick, tight circles for a moment. He barely registers his steps because he swears he's floating, drifting just above the clouds like he does in a dream.

There is an odd feeling he's forgetting to do something. Nothing with the notes themselves. _Simmons_. He had to find Simmons.

Grif stands up and charges out of his room so fast he skids into the opposite wall. There, he takes a moment to collect himself.

What does he even _say?_  'I'm in love with you too'? No, that's stupid. Maybe go a little slower, maybe hug him, or kiss his face, or something. No, what if Simmons wanted to go even _slower_ than that? Could Grif hold his hand while watching a movie? That's so cliché and corny, Simmons would love it, but what if he _didn't?_ Fuck! He doesn't know what to do besides panic!

Before he sends himself into a downward spiral, he pushes off of the wall and bursts into Simmons' room. Simmons himself is sitting on the edge of on his bed, capping and uncapping his calligraphy pen. He stands up quickly as Grif braces himself against the doorway

"What's wro—"

"Did you mean it?" Simmons blinks.

"What do you mean?"

"The _notes_ , are they real? Did you mean it, Simmons?" He hates the vulnerability is his voice, but he has to make sure, he _has_ to be positive this wasn't a sick, cruel joke. "Do you actually...?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course I do, dumbass!" Grif's mind goes blank for a second. His lips move on their own accord.

"You're serious?"

"Yes?" He doesn't look as embarrassed as Grif initially thought he would be.

"You're _serious_." Grif can feel the grin coming back. Something in his chest swells.

" _Yes_ , Grif, oh my God!" And there it is, that red flush on his cheeks. It makes his freckles stand out more, his green eye just a little bit brighter. It's a nice look on him in Grif's professional opinion.

"Ho-ly _shit_." Grif crosses the room in quick, short strides, and holds Simmons' face in his hands. The pen drops to the floor. "You're real. This is—" Grif breaks off in nervous laughter. The butterflies in his stomach feel more like a school of fish by the way it flips when Simmons smiles. It's a little squashed by the way Grif is cupping his cheeks, but it's a nice smile nonetheless. "Wow."

For a moment, they just stare at each other in a mix of awe and shock. Simmons suddenly starts chuckling. His head falls onto Grif's shoulder and wraps his long arms around his torso. "You're really fucking thick headed sometimes, you know that?"

"Excuse me, _sometimes?_ You should know me better by now. It's all or nothing." Grif's brows furrow. "Hey, that reminds me, why _did_ you go straight for... You know." The words get stuck, even though he doesn't reason for them to be anymore. "I— I'm in love with you? And not like, 'Hey, wanna go out?' Not that I'm complaining, but still." It felt so strange but so natural to say it out loud. To Simmons. Not a mirror, or a rock, or his hand. To _Simmons._

"I— Hmm." Simmons' mouth twists in thought. Grif waits impatiently, but he can't push anything right now, so he stays quiet. "I think... I was scared we wouldn't have time for that stuff."

"Dude, we spend so much time just sitting here. It's always the Blues getting into shit."

"Shut up, Grif, I'm trying to get this right." He takes Grif's hand in his robotic one, idly rubbing his thumb on Grif's palm. "Anyways. We're— We're always getting shot at, getting injured, and I was terrified that something would happen to you before I got the chance to say anything. One of us could die tomorrow and I didn't want to live with that. Or die with that, I don't know.

And it's been about six years since I felt— Felt... Fuck it, _liked you_ , and that's a lot of time to have a 'crush' on someone and I decided that it wasn't the correct term anymore. And then more time passed, and uh. I realized about two years ago that I didn't 'like' you anymore. Not like that, I like you! A lot! I just. Yeah," he finishes lamely. He bites his lip a bit as he looks apprehensively at Grif.

Grif knows his mouth has fallen open again. It takes him a few tries to get his words out. "I... I didn't know you, um. You know."

"Yeah, I know you didn't know."

Grif rolls his eyes. "Dude, you're still really fucking cheesy for passing on that cornball message through cryptic notes."

"Oh, like you could do any better!" Simmons drops his hand and pushes at him, but there's no real force behind it. "You just keep referring to this as 'that'!"

"Is that a challenge?" Grifs grin gets bigger. "Hey. Hey, Simmons. Guess what."

Simmons sighs. "What?"

"I love you." Simmons instantly turn bright red and starts babbling nonsense. Grif takes that as a sign to keep going. "In fact, I am _super_ in love with you. You—"

"Grif!" Simmons groans, and he keeps slapping his hands at Grif's chest, but that pleased smile betrays him. "Grif, stop it, oh my _God_ —"

"You are my anchor to this wretched life. My cinnamon bun. My starlight on the darkest nights."

Simmons seems torn between laughing and being annoyed. He ends up making a weird beeping sound that Grif will have to make fun of later because watching Simmons get all flustered was _way_ more entertaining. "And since I love you _so much_ —"

"Whatever you're about to say, I don't want to hear it!"

Grif holds him at arm's length and puts on his best puppy face, with a pouty lip and everything. "Aw, but Simmons, my dearest, I was going to ask if you wanted to see a movie later! But I'll have to find something else now." He puts a wrist to his forehead. "Tragedy! My hard work and great efforts for the love of my life, ruined by the very same person! Oh, the irony!"

Simmons eyes him suspiciously. Then his brow shoots up to his hairline. "You were being serious?"

Grif drops his wrist back to his side. "Nah, not really. I don't even know if this place even has a decent sized wall to project something on."

"Oh," Simmons says quietly. His shoulders slump a bit.

Grif frowns. "Wait, about the movie thing or the other thing, or the _other_ other thing?"

"Er... All of them?" Simmons says uncertainly.

"Oh." _Oh_. "Yeah, I'm, um, down for. That. I guess. I mean, sure, yeah, let's do that. The movie. With just us." There's a pregnant pause. "And the other thing, yeah, kind of serious about that too."

Simmons looks like he's trying not to look too amused, but the relief is evident. "And that whole 'super in love' spiel?"

"That too."

That's when Simmons leans down and kisses him. Not so hard it makes him dizzy, or so soft he's chasing for more. It's more careful if anything. As if to say, _is this okay?_ And it's so much more than just 'okay', Grif can't think of a word for it. A lump sticks in his throat, stealing away his next breath. He gasps lightly, and Simmons breaks away.

"So," Simmons says slowly. His smile turns sheepish. "Uh. Sorry. I just— Yeah."

"You should do that again," Grif says quietly. They just stand there for a moment, waiting for the other to make the first move. Within a few seconds, Simmons huffs and pulls him in again.

There's more confident this time, but a better suited word would be clumsy.Their noses bump, neither of them knows how to shape their mouth, or where to put their lips. Their teeth graze each other enough to make Simmons hum, and Grif doesn't know where to put his hands, so he just drops them to Simmons' waist.

He never would trade it for anything else.

All rational thoughts are wiped away when Simmons' hands move to the back of Grif's neck, fingers idly wrapping themselves around stray strands of hair. He feels Simmons tilt his head a little bit, fitting their lips together better. He makes a pleased noise, and Simmons smiles against his mouth. His neck hurts a little from craning his head up, but Simmons was now pressing his lips all over Grif's face, on his nose, just between his eyes, the corner of his mouth, on his mouth, again, and again, and again, so he can ignore it.

It fills his body with so many emotions at once because this, _this_ right here is all he's wanted. To be sure  of something for once in his life, and to know he can have this. He can have Simmons here with him, and he can hold him when he's upset instead of awkward shoulder patting, he can laugh for hours with him and finally look up at him with a smile without it becoming weird, he can kiss him to mess with him instead of making backhanded comments.

 _Certainty_. That's the thing he was missing this whole time.

"Y'know," Simmons murmurs against his cheek. "I don't see your hair down that much."

Grif jerks back and sputters an incredulous laugh. "Really? We just started figuring out, like, half a lifetime's worth of emotional constipation, and you're thinking about my _hair?_ "

"It's nice!" Simmons says defensively. He finally steps away from Grif, arms crossed. Grif pretends to not notice how much that bothers him. "It's... Nice. Also, please don't talk about constipation when we're making out."

"'It's nice.' Thanks." Grif rolls his eyes and goes to pull out the tie. His scalp was starting ache a bit anyways. Simmons' fingers twitch slightly as he shakes it out and pushes it back from his face. Grif makes a quiet note of that for... Later.

Simmons lets out a heavy breath. "We're still going to have to figure this... _This_ ," he gestures vaguely, "out eventually."

"Ugh. Do we have to?" Grif whines. "I think it's fine right now. We can— We can come back to that later. You know what we're going to have to do now? Take a kick-ass nap. Or make out more, can we do that?"

"I didn't say _now_ , dipshit. It's just that years of experience plus Doc and Donut has told me that poor communication isn't healthy."

"Healthy," Grif snorts. "Yeah, 'cause we're just the _best_ at being healthy." They keep flat faces for a beat before they burst out laughing. Grif doubles over, barely registering Simmons using him as a support. He can hear the rare, tiny snorts that he knows Simmons hates, but right now it's the most precious sound in the world.

"We are so shit at this," Simmons manages before breaking down again. Grif wheezes in response.

"At least we're consistent!" It takes another minute for them to calm down. Grif wipes a tear from his eye. "No, but seriously—" He breaks out into another fit of giggles. "Fuck, we're gonna go and do the nap thing now. No," Grif presses a finger to Simmons' lips when he starts to protest. "They overwork us anyways. We can take breaks."

"They don't overwork _you_ ," Simmons mumbles around his finger. "And I still have forms—"

"That other people can fill out themselves." Grif grabs both of Simmons' hands and tugs him towards his bed. He goes with barely any resistance, and they curl up on top of the covers. So much for needing to work.

It takes a few minutes of repositioning and a lot of repetition of the phrase, 'Move, jackass,' but they manage. Simmons ends up with his chin resting on top of Grif's head. His arm loops over Grif's back to mess with the back of his hair again. He's tucked against Simmons' chest. There, he can hear the whirrs and clicks of all of the complicated parts that make him up. It's strangely comforting.

Exhaustion hits him all at once. He hadn't realized how late it was when he came in here. He inhales deeply into Simmons' shirt. It still smells like vanilla for somehow. The scent reminds Grif of something, but he can't remember what.

Simmons sighs, breath hot against his head. Giddiness pulses through Grif's body again. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For— You know what, forget it. I want to sleep." Grif shrugs and scoots a bit closer.

"I'll take that action." Grif can feel Simmons chuckles bubble from his chest to his throat. He's washed over again with sheer joy, and he shivers a bit. Simmons apparently takes this as him being cold because he pulls him into his chest a little more.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Something itches in the back of Grif's mind.

"Guess you were right," he murmurs.

"Wha'? 'bout wha'?" Simmons answers sleepily.

"Opposites do attract."

Simmons makes a confused noise."What're you even sayin'?"

"Nothin'." A minute of silence passes. "G'night, Simmons."

"Goodnigh', Grif."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have it!!! thank you all so much for reading! im not sure what i should do next, but ill come up with something.  
> (apologies again for possible ooc reactions. idk i just... i wanted them to be able to be excited and then save the regular Angst that comes with this sort of stuff later. im bad at mixing the two together.)
> 
> [EDIT] so i realized there was a bit of a plot hole in this chapter. i never actually wrote in where Grif got his 'opposites' hint. it would probably be more obvious to the reader, but unless he's pulling some meta fourth-wall breaking shit, i dunno if that would really work. i went back and tried to include a few extra paragraphs to try and explain it. that's about it, sorry if that confused anyone!! that's entirely my fault.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all so much for reading!! if you want to come and chat, i have a [tumblr](http://scintillating-galaxias.tumblr.com)! it's mostly reblogging overwatch and rvb stuff. have a lovely day!! :^)


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